


Here, Lover, Lover, With Your Skin As Soft As Silk; Come, Lover, Lover, And Drink Your Honeyed Milk

by leonidaslion



Series: Suite!verse [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Dark, Disturbing Themes, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-10
Updated: 2011-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 11:38:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Too much wine has a way of lowering inhibitions, not that Sam has ever needed the help...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here, Lover, Lover, With Your Skin As Soft As Silk; Come, Lover, Lover, And Drink Your Honeyed Milk

**Author's Note:**

> [Art](http://charlie-d-blue.livejournal.com/9415.html) by charlie-d-blue  
> [More Art](http://charlie-d-blue.livejournal.com/13379.html) by charlie-d-blue  
> [Art + Fanmix](http://abendiboo.livejournal.com/13726.html") by abendiboo
> 
> [Vid](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZyyQMBKWG3I) by loverstar  
> [Trailer](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CWxN30zvGw8) by loverstar  
> [Vid 2](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJmC3R8PME4&feature=related) by loverstar
> 
> [Audiofic](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/category/seriessuiteverse) by juice817

It’s been a bad day and Dean is drunk. These are not necessarily unrelated facts. Actually, he’s willing to lay odds that the two are pretty fucking intimately connected. Not that it matters right now. Right now, nothing matters but the easygoing buzz in his head, which is—for the present, anyway—making his life seem unreal and far away.

“Aren’t you coming to tuck me in and read me a story, Daddy?”

Dean reluctantly cracks one eye where he’s lying sprawled on the couch and sees Ben looking at him with a confused expression. The kid’s still carrying that stupid stuffed lion around. Every time Dean glances at that tawny synthetic fur and those vacant glass eyes, he gets another swooping, lurching drop in his stomach, just like he did the first time he heard about Ben’s exciting day Outside.

They were gone when Dean woke up—Sam and Ben both. Just… vanished, like they’d fallen off the face of the earth. No note, no fucking anything.

Dean wasn’t proud of the way he banged on the elevator doors—tried getting in the car again, when he got more desperate; there was always a chance that Sam’s mark had changed enough to let him through. Instead, he got to feel punishing power rip into him, he got Sam’s irritated, scolding voice in his head telling him to go back to the suite and stop being stupid.

‘I’ll be home for dinner,’ was all Dean got in the way of promises. _I_ , not _we_ , and Dean couldn’t make up his mind whether he was hoping Ben was with Sam or praying he was somewhere else. Then, of course, he couldn’t stop imagining where those somewhere elses might be, and by the time Sam finally returned with Ben riding up on his shoulders and clutching that stupid stuffed animal in one hand, the only reason Dean wasn’t puking his knotted stomach up in the toilet was the fact that he hadn’t been able to bring himself to eat anything.

Sam had given him a warning look when he set Ben down—and sent a warning tickle of power over Dean’s skin—so Dean wasn’t even able to yell at the asshole about it. But there was wine during dinner, thank God. There was as much wine as Dean wanted, and he probably should have been leery about the evidence that Sam didn’t mind him getting drunk, but he needed his nerves unknotted too much to care about what his brother was getting out of this.

“Not tonight,” Dean mumbles, turning his head away toward the back of the couch—whoa, the room does not want to be steady right now—and shutting his eyes again.

“I wanna hear what happens to the mermaid.”

Dean’s brain flops around on its own and he remembers, in short order, Sam bringing home the book of fairy tales—unedited, either because he has no clear conception of how not to traumatize a five-year-old kid ( _or whatever Ben is; Dean’s a little fuzzy on his mental age beneath all of Sam’s screwing around_ ), or because he just doesn’t give a shit. Luckily, although this version of Ben can play a mean Mario Kart and has the vocabulary and diction of a much older boy, he still has a difficult time reading all but the simplest of words and none of the pictures in the book are particularly graphic. Dean’s been cobbling together endings of his own based on Disney movies and garbled memories from those four, safe years before the fire.

But fucked if his brain is working well enough tonight to edit around the mermaid’s bloody feet and her slow dissolve into insubstantial sea foam.

“Not tonight,” he repeats without moving—more for Sam’s ears than Ben’s. Dean doesn’t trust his brother not to just read the fairy tale through as-is. “T’morrow morning.”

“Why not?” Ben pushes, coming closer. A small hand lightly touches Dean’s upper arm. “Are you sick?”

Yes. Yes, Dean’s sick. He’s fucking infected. He’s tainted. He has Sam running through him like a motherfucking cancer—stage four, terminal case.

“He’s just tired, dude,” Sam’s voice says. “It’s past his bedtime.”

Ben goes away then, thank God, and Dean is allowed to drift towards hazy slumber ( _no blue-eyed brother waiting for him anymore, not now that Sam has his visitor locked up somewhere nearby_ ). Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s at all surprised when Sam’s fingers rake through his hair an unknown length of time later, drawing him back from the edge of sleep.

The caress feels good, and Dean tilts his head up for it, ignoring the weak pulse of self-hatred that the action sets off in his chest. It’s easy enough to shut out the voice whispering that he should shove Sam off of him—it should be; Dean’s gotten enough practice at it.

“How are you feeling?” Sam asks, his voice a low, soothing murmur.

“Drunk off my ass,” Dean answers honestly. It isn’t like Sam can’t feel the truth for himself with a single stroke of power. Or spot Dean’s condition just by looking at him. Sam has, after all, seen him like this before.

“Is this really the kind of role model you want to be for your son?”

The bitter, humorless laugh that bubbles out past Dean’s lips doesn’t do anything to loosen the tension in his chest. “This coming from the guy who almost turned him into kitty chow.”

The hand in Dean’s hair stills.

“He was perfectly safe.”

Dean laughs again. The wine sloshing around in his head is making this conversation a lot easier than he thought it would be. “Oh yeah, I heard all about how great he and Simba got along.”

“M’wasi.”

“If it walks like a lion and talks like a lion, I’m calling it Simba.”

“You’re being irrational.”

“You put him in a goddamned lion’s den!” Dean snaps, jerking sharply to his feet to get away from the hand in his hair. The room reels around him and his stomach lurches unhappily, but stays where it belongs. When he looks back over his shoulder, Sam is standing by the arm of the couch with an unreadable expression.

“It’s his birthday,” Sam says. “I took him to the zoo. Isn’t that what a father is supposed to do for his son?”

 _You’re not his fucking father!_

The words are almost out of Dean’s lips before he can bite down on them. He manages it, though, and only says, tightly, “Lions, Sam. Christ, _Dad_ had more sense than that.”

Sam’s mouth compresses into an expression that Dean would care more about if the floor weren’t tilting on him. “What is it that you think might have happened, Dean? With me standing by Ben’s side? You don’t honestly think he was in any danger, do you?”

Yeah, Dean does. Because he isn’t precisely sure what Ben means to Sam, aside from leverage. Oh sure, there have been hints of genuine care in their interactions—one of them strong enough to reset the tattoo on Dean’s back into its current configuration—but nothing consistent enough that Dean would be willing to gamble Ben’s life on it. One moment of inattention from Sam when they were out there today… One single wrong step on Ben’s part…

What would Sam have done? Just come back and not mentioned it? Told Dean that Ben was safe in another area of the hotel? It isn’t as though Dean has the mobility to dispute the lie.

But really, the looping, surreal panic that accompanies the thought of Ben stroking a full-grown lion’s mane while Sam looks idly on isn’t the issue.

“I was worried sick all day,” Dean yells. “I woke up and he was just gone. No note, _nothing_.”

Sam tilts his head with the first flicker of real emotion Dean has seen. Or possibly just the first one he can read in his current state. Although it takes him a few seconds to pin down the wrinkled forehead and pursed mouth as confusion.

“I thought you’d assume he was with me. I mean, where else would he be?”

The laugh that breaks from Dean’s lips sounds too sharp to him, straddling the edge of hysteria. “I hate to break it to you, Sam, but the idea of you alone with him isn’t exactly comforting.”

With a petulant frown, Sam accuses, “You don’t trust me.”

“No shit I don’t!” Dean answers immediately, because regardless of his inability to break his heart free from the ruined man before him, he has no more illusions about what Sam has become. There might be buried remnants of his Sammy there, Dean’s gambling his soul and allegiance on the hope that there are, but the boy king could lurch forward at any moment.

Sammy would never let any harm come to Ben, but there’s no heart in that golden-eyed monster, no trusting what he might do. Anyone within a hundred-mile stretch who isn’t Dean is at risk.

“Ben’s just leverage for you, isn’t he?” Dean demands, not bothering to bite back these potentially explosive words any more than he stopped any of the others. He has a feeling that tomorrow he’s going to be appalled with himself.

Sam doesn’t seem to look angry, though. Maybe… puzzled?

“You already know the answer to that,” Sam says. “I told you when I brought him here.”

Yeah, Sam did, but he’s been fucking with Dean’s perceptions since then, playing the doting father’s role to perfection. He has, much as it stings to admit it, been playing that role better than Dean himself.

“But you’ve been good,” Sam continues, moving closer. “Ben’s safe. If you don’t want me to take him outside again, I won’t. I only brought him today because I thought you might want me to.”

Dean resists the urge to move away ( _his head’s spinning enough that he isn’t sure he could keep his feet_ ) and a moment later Sam’s hands untuck Dean’s shirt from his pants.

“Don’t,” Dean mutters, reaching for Sam’s wandering hands as they push up along his bare skin.

“Why not?” The words are a rumble that vibrate down Dean’s spine, leaving heat in their wake. Sam’s mouth finds the side of Dean’s throat and works, tongue and teeth and lips leaving his skin sore and slick. Dean’s breath comes faster as the room moves around him. It’s becoming difficult to remember why he’s arguing when everything Sam does feels so fucking good.

“Ben,” Dean manages as Sam begins unbuttoning his shirt. “He’ll—he’ll see.”

“Your son is tucked in for the night,” Sam mumbles, barely bothering to lift his mouth from Dean’s throat. “And I want you naked and on your back.”

Dean groans in reply, swaying a little as Sam finishes unbuttoning his dress shirt and pushes it back off of his shoulders. The air feels cool against his bare stomach and chest, and Dean flinches.

“Shh,” Sam breathes, his breath damp in Dean’s ear. His hand slides down to cup Dean’s hardening cock through his pants. “I’ll take care of you.”

Dean tilts his head back and allows his eyes to slip shut. He lets Sam take most of his weight while his cock is fondled and squeezed—Sam’s hand, Sammy taking care of him, Sam’s scent everywhere and the honeyed slide of power moving over his skin.

“That’s it,” Sam praises as Dean bucks forward with a loose, disjointed thrust. “So fucking pretty when you let go.”

Letting go is a good name for it, Dean thinks hazily as Sam’s fingers stop squeezing and start popping buttons, opening up his pants. He can feel all of his frustration—the anger, the terror—seeping away from him, pushed aside by the distracting, pleasurable throb between his legs.

Christ, if he’d known how easy it would be to set aside all of his hang-ups for a few hours, he would have cracked open more than just a single cold one with Sam all those months ago.

Sam’s mouth moves down the side of Dean’s neck to his chest, and then drifts over to one of his nipples. The scrape of teeth makes Dean’s back arch, and he gasps as Sam’s hand pushes inside his gaping pants and closes around his cock. Power thickens as it pours against his skin, heat soaking him from the outside in and leaving him shaking.

Fuck, he’s going to come. He’s going to come so fucking hard…

“No. Not yet.”

Dean swears, head falling forward again as Sam’s hand on his cock tightens in restraint.

“Son of a bitch,” he slurs. Trust Sam to be this contradictory, to drag Dean unwillingly to the edge of climax and then haul him back just as he’s about to go over. Bastard.

The pleased noise Sam makes in the back of his throat rouses Dean a little more—enough to struggle as Sam leads him back to the couch and pushes him down onto it. He kicks, but he isn’t coordinated enough to connect and his pants slide off anyway, leaving him naked and sprawled in an awkward position. He tries to push up, sends a reeling rush to his head, and collapses back against the couch again.

Huh. Somehow, his head’s gotten all squished up at an uncomfortable angle against the side of one plush arm. Not that it’s worth the effort required to right himself again.

“You’re really hammered, aren’t you?” Sam asks, and he sounds so much like himself—his old self—that Dean squints up to make sure his eyes are still gold. It’s difficult to tell, actually, because everything is soft-edged with amber anyway, blurred with light. Tendrils of power are feeling their way across Dean’s bare thighs and stomach and chest and his eyes flutter shut again on a soft exhale.

He hears fabric rustling while he’s stroked, body burning to a feverish, frantic peak. His breath sticks to the inside of his lungs, his heartbeat thunders in his ears. He’s trembling all over, want clinging to his skin and leaving him damp. Or maybe that’s sweat, or all that wine he drank leaking back out through his pores.

A thump signals Sam’s clothes hitting the floor and then a hand ( _Sam’s hand_ ) brushes against his knee before gliding up the inside of his thigh. Dean swallows and feels his legs shift wider, left knee pressing into the couch back and right foot sliding off to rest the floor. He isn’t sure whether it’s Sam urging the movement or if he’s spreading of his own accord, and the confusion is enough for him to tense his thighs with the intent to clench them shut again.

“Shh,” Sam breathes, and the sound of his voice makes Dean hesitate uncertainly.

He twists his head where it’s wedged against the arm of the couch, cracking his eyes open in an attempt to locate his brother—Sam’s expression will give him some kind of indication of what to do, how to respond to the insidious slithers of heat moving through him. Before he gets more than a vague impression of the far wall, though, Sam’s ghosting touches find his balls and slow, dancing a tease over feverish, tight skin. Dean shuts his eyes again on a groan as he shifts against the couch. He digs his fingers into the cushions and tenses as low, needy noises work their way free from his throat.

Power brushes over his open mouth—some strange, sensuous melding of Sam’s mouth and fingers that traces along his lips in a tender, hushing motion. More illusory hands stroke down Dean’s sides to grip and caress the inside of his thighs. Tendrils slither up to rub along the sensitive join of his legs, and Dean’s muscles go lax. His thighs drop back open, allowing Sam to cup his balls fully in one hand and offer a gentle squeeze.

“What do you want?” Sam asks as he pushes one finger down behind Dean’s sac to rub along the crease of his ass. He isn’t quite touching Dean’s aching entrance, but he’s coming close enough to get another moan and an uncoordinated roll of Dean’s hips. “You want my mouth, baby? You want me to suck you off? Or do you want me to bring you off like this?”

Dean’s eyes flutter open—it’s an impossible decision; he wants to protest the question—and then his stomach tightens painfully as he focuses on the jut of Sam’s cock, which is hard and leaking between Sam’s legs where he’s crouched close by the side of the couch. Memories flutter through Dean’s mind, a flood of sensations that he buried but which the wine has uncovered, and his mouth waters.

Sam’s eyes snap up as though Dean spoke ( _fuck, maybe he did; he’s out of it enough to have done a stupid thing like that_ ), and then he stands and rounds the end of the couch, moving in to rest a hand on Dean’s cheek. Dean is confused by the touch, by the desires uncoiling through his body, by the spinning room. He turns his head to one side and focuses on breathing through slightly parted lips.

Christ, he can smell himself, smells his own musk on Sam’s hand.

“I miss your mouth,” Sam whispers as he finds Dean’s mouth with his fingers and slips a thumb inside to press against Dean’s teeth. Sam wriggles his thumb slightly and Dean’s mouth opens further, letting Sam ease inside. “I think maybe we both miss your mouth.”

Dean isn’t sure how Sam got from one observation to the other, but it’s difficult to argue with Sam’s thumb making shallow, meaningful thrusts past his teeth. And then, suddenly, Sam’s thumb is gone. Dean’s shoulders are gripped and he’s pulled higher on the couch, his head tilted back in a more comfortable position and resting on the arm.

Sam steps in close, one hand wrapped around his cock and the other stroking Dean’s face. The room spins.

“Open for me,” Sam urges. “You want this just as much as I do, so open up.”

There’s a part of Dean that’s certain he’s going to regret this later; a part that’s sure there are a whole host of reasons to refuse. But when he tries to find those reasons, he comes up against a blank, ruby-colored wall, and the arousal flowing through him is so much more persuasive.

Dean opens his mouth, watching through blurry eyes as Sam steps in closer. His cock seems larger than normal from this angle, and then Dean is staring at Sam’s sac instead, and something unbearably hot and silken is rubbing over his parted lips. Dean’s stomach flips and he moans as his own cock jerks.

“So good for me,” Sam praises, his voice strained. “So beautiful.”

Dean takes a breath and feels Sam slide in. It’s only a shallow, tentative thrust—testing—but it sends shivers through Dean’s body. He opens his mouth wider without being asked, tilting his head back as Sam pushes forward and that thick cock presses down on his tongue. The angle is difficult, or maybe Dean just isn’t used to this any longer, because there are a few awkward moments where he struggles, unsure what to do with himself.

Then instinct kicks in and his jaw unlocks and his tongue moves, stroking clumsily at the hot, soft length of flesh resting against it. The silky skin tastes like salt and bitter semen and Sam, and Dean doesn’t fight when Sam feeds even more past his lips. The head bumps the back of Dean’s throat a moment later, making his muscles tense in something that isn’t quite a gag. His eyes water—he can’t breathe around Sam’s length, the width of him—and then, suddenly, Sam pulls out.

Dean gets a single breath before Sam pushes in again, more quickly this time, and feels the thick head of Sam’s cock slip down his throat. This time it’s definitely a gag. He chokes as his mouth waters and his throat muscles work, trying to expel the intrusion, and Sam withdraws immediately.

“Sorry,” he says, patting Dean’s face while he coughs. The pats quickly become strokes, and while Dean is still trying to adjust to his newfound ability to breathe, Sam’s hand curls around his upturned throat. Power seeps out from his fingertips, past Dean’s skin and into his muscles, leaving his throat relaxed and warm.

“S’mmy?” Dean slurs, a flutter of anxiety mixing with the hunger still making his mouth water.

“It’s all right, baby,” Sam tells him. “Don’t fight me. I’m just helping you.”

Before Dean can say anything else, Sam feeds him his cock again, the head spearing past his lips before pressing back into his throat. Sam pushes deeper this time, far enough that Dean’s throat feels uncomfortably stuffed and full, but there’s no corresponding resistance. Above him, Sam lets out a relieved grunt and leans forward, balancing with his hands on Dean’s lower stomach.

His balls are pressed up against the underside of Dean’s nose, filling Dean with the scent of Sammy and sex. Dean does his best to nuzzle them while licking awkwardly at the length in his mouth.

“So fucking good,” Sam praises, pulling out slightly in order to rock back in. Dean’s throat muscles ripple at the sensation, but remain accepting as Sam gently begins to thrust, moving his cock in and out of Dean’s throat in a rhythm that allows him just enough time to breathe.

It’s good, it’s what Dean has been missing, and he brings up a slow, clumsy hand to reach back and grip Sam’s ass, urging him on, trying to bring him deeper. Sam makes a surprised noise and then starts thrusting harder. Dean chokes a little despite the relaxing warmth wrapped around his throat, then moans as Sam reaches out with one hand and starts jacking him.

“Mmph,” he grunts around his brother’s cock. His legs tense and flex as he makes weak thrusts of his own, too concerned with the girth of Sam in his mouth and throat to be at all coordinated for his own pleasure.

For long, countless moments, it’s quiet in the room; the silence broken only by the wet, slick noises of Dean’s mouth at work. Then Sam grunts, his ass flexing against Dean’s hand. His cock jerks where it’s buried deep in Dean’s throat, and the violent motion is followed by a tickle of liquid that makes Dean cough. Sam pulls back a little almost immediately, though, and most of his semen shoots out to pool on Dean’s tongue.

Sam’s come is creamy, and hot, and tastes—fuck, Dean can taste Sam’s power in it somehow, a lingering flare of burnt ozone and smoke. He swallows reflexively anyway, no real thought to it, and Sam rewards him by continuing to make shallow, gentle thrusts in his mouth as he tugs Dean to his own climax.

Dean orgasms with his brother’s softening cock in his mouth and Sammy’s balls smothering his nose. His body is awash with emotions and sensations that he can’t sort out, satisfaction and embarrassment and shame and arousal all threaded into a writhing mass and shoved down into his stomach.

Oblivious or uncaring, Sam leans farther forward and kisses Dean’s wet, spent dick.

Then he straightens and moves back, giving Dean the space to turn his head to one side and shut his mouth. Dean’s jaw aches and his throat is sore, but he hasn’t felt this sated in a long time. When Sam leans over the back of the couch to touch his face, Dean arches up into his brother’s hand, flushing with pleasure and contentment.

Sam chuckles. “Gonna have to get you drunk more often.”

Swaddled in spinning, confused warmth, Dean can’t disagree.

**Author's Note:**

> Since I'm not on LJ anymore, I can't set up a separate post for this, but I'm in the position of needing shorter pieces to poke at between finishing up this verse. And since I'm out of Fumblings, that's not going to work anymore. :) No promises I'd get to them all (the plot bunnies are fickle and random), but if anyone has suggestions or prompts of what they'd like to see (preferably in a vein dissimilar to suite!verse), feel free to drop me a line here.


End file.
